Inside, the apartment is dim, the quiet stretching between us. My arms curl around my body, fingers tracing over my skin in a restless, absent-minded motion. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Atlas notices.

“Cold?”

I shake my head. “I’m just . . . processing.”

He doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the space with empty words. Just nods before walking into the kitchen. I watch as he moves—unhurried, sure of himself in a way that makes it clear this isn’t something he has to think about. He reaches into the cabinet, pulls down two glasses, fills them with water, and then hands one to me.

I take it without thinking, fingers brushing his before curling around the cool glass.

The silence between us stretches—not awkward, not uncomfortable, but charged with something I don’t have the words for.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

Atlas leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me. “Doing what exactly?”

“Taking care of me.”

His jaw tenses, his expression unreadable for a beat before he shifts his weight slightly. “I know. But I want to—I enjoy it very much.”

I blink. The admission is so simple, so direct, that it takes me a second to catch up. He enjoys it very much?

Something tugs at the edges of my thoughts, a feeling I don’t quite know what to do with. I tighten my grip around the glass. “Why?” Maybe why wasn’t right, should it be how? How does a person enjoy taking care of a stranger the way he does?

Atlas doesn’t answer right away. He sets his drink down, his fingers tapping once against the counter, then looks at me like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“Why? Because you’re adorable—as I said, I want to do it, and I like having you around,” he says, and then, like he’s shifting gears, he pulls out his phone. “Speaking of want, I don’t want to assume, but . . . I think you have PTSD.”

His words land with an impact I’m not ready for, knocking something loose inside me. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

And how am I supposed to respond? PTSD is not for people like me. That’s for war heroes, isn’t it? It’s for people who have done something significant. Me? I didn’t do anything but let a man treat me like I was an object. Not that I have any other choice. The one time I tried to fight him years ago, I ended up in the hospital. It was a hard way to learn a lesson.

“If you want, I can give you some names for therapists⁠—”

“First of all, I don’t have PTSD. Second and most important, I can’t afford that.” The response is immediate, a reflex. A defense.